Dead End

by Leigh Russell

  Bev turned her face away from him without speaking and Ian gazed down at her short white blonde hair, her narrow shoulders and slim legs, taking in her clothes. Always beautiful, she had made an effort to dress up smartly for her friend's birthday drink.

  He sighed, trying to understand where she was coming from, but it was outrageous that she would expect him to prioritise having a birthday drink with a friend over stopping an evil monster like Crozier. ‘I'm sorry, Bev,’ he lied. ‘I was so wrapped up in the case, I completely forgot about the arrangement with Kirsty. But even if I'd remembered, it wouldn't have made any difference. You do understand that, don't you?’ She didn't answer. ‘And there's still the ongoing investigation into who murdered the teacher. But that's not so pressing. I mean, it was vital we found the girl quickly. He could have killed her – or worse.’

  Bev turned to face him and he was surprised to see tears glittering on her cheeks. ‘It's all right, love, I get it,’ she said gently. ‘I'm sorry. Of course finding that poor child and catching the paedophile had to take precedence over Kirsty's drinks. I'm sorry. Come here.’ She patted the cushion next to her and Ian dropped down onto the sofa and put his arm round her, pulling her close. Bev rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.

  ‘I had something.’ He didn't add that he'd eaten in the pub. ‘So, what have you been up to?’

  Bev began to talk but he couldn't focus on what she was saying. After a few minutes she tapped him on the knee. ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘Sorry. I was just thinking about the DL.’ Talking to Bev often helped Ian to formulate his thoughts and he really needed to work through his suspicions of Paul Hilliard and his concern that Geraldine's judgement had been clouded by her relationship with the pathologist.

  Bev pulled away abruptly from his embrace and folded her arms. ‘Oh great. Thank you very much. You think so much of your precious DI, why don't you go and live with her? You practically do already. You spend more time with her than you do with me –’

  ‘You know it's not a nine to five job, Bev.’ He paused but she didn't answer. ‘I don't see how you can be married to a police officer if you can't understand something as basic as that.’

  Bev rose to her feet and stood directly in front of him, gazing at him, her eyes wide. ‘Married to a police officer?’ she repeated. ‘Did you say married?’

  Ian stared back at her, bowled over. For years he had been planning to marry Bev one day, if she'd have him, but he hadn't intended to propose like this, sweaty and exhausted from a long day at work, with Bev in tears. He'd thought vaguely of a romantic weekend in Paris, a ring passed across the table in an open jewellery box, sparkling on a small velvet cushion, a real corker, like the ring one of his mates had bought for his girlfriend. Bev would love that.

  He hesitated, aware that she was waiting for an answer. ‘Well, I want to, if you do,’ he stammered. ‘Of course I do. Don't you?’

  ‘Is this a proposal?’

  ‘Look, I haven't got a ring yet, I mean, I wanted to take you away somewhere romantic… Oh what the hell?’ He dropped down on one knee. ‘Marry me, Bev. Marry me or I'll be miserable for the rest of my life.’

  She laughed, crying again. ‘How can I refuse an offer like that?’ Ian stood up and wrapped her in his arms, holding her so close that she complained. ‘Let go, Ian, I can't breathe.’

  ‘I'll never let you go,’ he answered. As he relaxed his grip on her, he was surprised to realise his eyes were watering. ‘I should have asked you a long time ago,’ he said.

  ‘Why didn't you?’

  ‘I was afraid.’

  ‘Afraid of commitment?’

  ‘Afraid you'd say no.’

  ‘That's the daftest thing I've ever heard.’

  He pressed Bev's head against his neck to stop her seeing his tears. He had never felt so happy.

  64

  JOURNEY

  ‘Fancy an early night?’ Ian suggested. ‘I've got to be up at six in the morning.’

  ‘I thought you had the day off tomorrow.’

  ‘No such luck. All hands to the pumps I'm afraid.’

  Bev groaned and ruffled his hair. ‘Oh Ian. And you're so tired.’

  ‘I'm fine.’

  ‘No, you're not. You look absolutely exhausted. Can't they let you have a day off?’

  He shook his head, smiling. ‘It'll soon be over. Now, how about that early night?’

  ‘Why do you have to be up so early?’

  ‘I need to go in and work,’ he replied vaguely. He didn't want to risk anyone finding out what he was planning to do the next day.

  The train to York took two hours from Kings Cross. Ian spent the time checking through Paul Hilliard's history once again. His fifteen-year-old daughter had died but Peterson could find no report on the cause of death, which was strange. The records seemed to have vanished. He spent an hour on the telephone to the registrar of births and deaths in York, but they were unable to help him.

  ‘I'm sorry, Sergeant.’ The woman on the line, flustered at first, became increasingly belligerent. ‘It looks as though someone's taken the file away and not returned it.’

  ‘Don't you keep a copy?’

  ‘We don't have duplicates as a matter of course.’ In the end she promised to look into it and Peterson had to be satisfied with that.

  Six months after Abigail Kirby had moved to Harchester, Paul Hilliard had been appointed Home Office pathologist for the area. It could have been a coincidence. Abigail Kirby and Paul Hilliard had both been promoted. There was no reason why they shouldn't have moved to the same area, but given the connection through Paul Hilliard's daughter Ian was convinced he was right to investigate, sure too that there was at least a possibility the DI's judgement had been influenced by her friendship with the pathologist. How else could he explain her vehement rejection of his ideas, before she'd even considered what he was saying, and why had she flatly refused to tell the DCI about his suspicions?

  Ian stepped off the train at York, crossed the busy station footbridge and made his way out onto the street. He took a taxi into town, choosing not to contact the local police station for transport. He wanted to keep his visit under wraps, at least until he had something concrete to show the DI. If his journey turned out to be a waste of time, she need never find out. He would have spent a long day travelling for nothing, but he had been ferreting around, asking about Paul Hilliard, and he had a feeling something wasn't right. If his suspicions proved to be well founded he would have to face the DI, but at least he'd have some hard facts to show her.

  The headmistress of York Girls Grammar School was an austere, grey-haired woman. Ian could imagine her intimidating the pupils in her charge, but she greeted him pleasantly enough.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Peterson, I'm June Melbury. How can I help you?’ While her words were urbane, her eyes were guarded. ‘May I ask what this is about?’

  ‘I want to ask about a former member of your staff who was here until the end of the last academic year. It's a routine enquiry. Nothing serious. Just a little background information about Abigail Kirby.’

  ‘Oh Abigail.’ Mrs Melbury sat down heavily. ‘Yes, of course we heard. How terrible.’ She shook her head. ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘We're investigating.’

  ‘And how can I help you?’

  ‘We're not sure yet.’

  ‘You mean, you're here to ask the questions,’ she smiled. ‘Well, of course, anything I can do to help –’

  ‘Was Abigail Kirby popular with the pupils? Was she good at her job?’

  ‘She was very good with the pupils, especially when they had problems.’

  ‘What sort of problems?’

  Mrs Melbury sighed. ‘There are so many problems with young girls these days, Sergeant, but it's always best when they come forward so we can help them. It's the ones who don't talk who turn out to be the real worry.’ Ian thought of Lucy Kirby, and wondered if she was receiving similar c
onsideration at her school. She was probably one of the girls who kept her problems to herself, although obviously the school knew about her mother's murder. Everyone knew about it.

  He realised the headmistress was looking at him, waiting for him to speak. ‘Did she ever help a pupil called Emma Hilliard?’

  ‘Emma Hilliard, the suicide? She tried.’

  ‘We know she committed suicide,’ Ian lied, looking down to hide his surprise, ‘but we need to be clear about the circumstances. Please can you tell me in your own words what happened.’

  Mrs Melbury hesitated. ‘What has this to do with Abigail Kirby?’

  ‘I'm afraid I can't say. All I can tell you is that we're investigating the death of Abigail Kirby and we need to know about her history with Emma Hilliard. It may just possibly have some bearing on what happened to her. That's what I've been sent here to look into.’ He hoped the headmistress wouldn't realise he was winging it. She looked like a shrewd woman, used to penetrating her pupils’ fibs.

  Mrs Melbury didn't reply straightaway. Instead, she picked up her phone. ‘Can you bring me the file for Emma Hilliard?’ She listened for a moment. ‘Yes, that Emma… Yes, the secure cabinet… Thank you.’ She turned to Ian. ‘It's all history now. I do hope this isn't going to be raked over in public again. Once the press start up – we barely rode out the storm when it all happened. The school almost didn't survive.’ She looked very old and tired suddenly.

  ‘Of course you can rely on our discretion,’ Ian reassured her.

  A moment later the door opened and a woman scurried in carrying a buff folder which she handed to the headmistress, who nodded her thanks and waited for the secretary to leave the room. She glanced down at the file and spoke slowly. ‘Emma Hilliard was fifteen when she fell pregnant. Abigail Kirby supported her.’

  ‘How did she support her, exactly?’

  ‘She helped to arrange an abortion.’

  ‘An abortion?’

  ‘It was what Emma wanted. We advised against it and she had counselling naturally – we insisted as a matter of course – but she was a determined girl who knew her own mind. An intelligent girl. She didn't want her parents to find out.’

  ‘They didn't know?’

  ‘Not at first.’

  ‘Shouldn't you have told them?’

  ‘Her mother was told but not her father. Abigail made the arrangements with the mother's consent. It was the best we could do, and Emma was very insistent that was what she wanted. Her mother supported her wishes – so she went ahead and had the abortion.’

  ‘Why did she kill herself?’

  The headmistress shrugged helplessly. ‘Who knows exactly why these things happen? After the abortion she became depressed. She was having help and we thought she was making a good recovery, but one day –’ She broke off. After a few seconds she regained her self-control. ‘Her father took it very hard. He'd known nothing about the pregnancy, but of course it all came out after her suicide. He was understandably shocked when he learned that his daughter had refused to confide in him and, as he saw it, his wife had colluded in excluding him from supporting his daughter. He seemed to think he could have made a difference, if he had known. And who knows? Maybe he would. Anyway, the marriage broke up after the girl's suicide. They had no other children, only Emma, you see. Her father idolised her. She was a lovely girl, very intelligent, talented, and quite beautiful. I think her father blamed us, but we were only supporting Emma's wishes and her mother knew all about it, so I really don't believe the school can be held responsible for what happened. If we hadn't helped Emma, her mother would have taken her elsewhere and we thought she was better off with people who knew her. Or at least we thought we knew her. It was a terrible tragedy.’

  Ian considered. ‘How did she actually commit suicide?’

  ‘She hung herself.’

  ‘At school?’

  ‘No. There was that at least. Not that it made any difference to the poor girl. And it was her father who found her… in her bedroom…’ She rubbed her bottom lip with the back of a hand that was shaking slightly. ‘And then there was another one…’

  Ian had to strain to hear her. ‘Another one?’

  ‘Another girl – Emma's best friend – she killed herself two weeks later. She threw herself out of Emma's bedroom window. Emma's father said she asked to visit her friend's room to say goodbye, and when he went upstairs, I'm afraid the poor man found her too. It was horrible. She lost an ear –’

  Ian started forward in his chair. ‘Lost an ear? What do you mean?’

  ‘There was a glass conservatory below the window and she went right through it, shattering the glass and slashing off her ear as she fell.’ Mrs Melbury shuddered.

  Ian leapt to his feet. ‘I need to see the post-mortem report as soon as possible. What was her name?’ The headmistress looked surprised at his sudden excitement. ‘Her name?’ he repeated impatiently.

  ‘Her name was Mary Shelton. She was a sweet girl. You have no idea what an effect all this had on our community here. We're still reeling from it.’

  Ian put his notebook away. He didn't have much time before his train back. ‘Thank you very much. That's been very helpful.’

  She too stood up. ‘And all this will be treated in strict confidence?’

  ‘Need to know basis.’

  ‘Thank you. I realise you may not be able to tell me, but do you think this will help your enquiries into Abigail's death?’

  ‘Yes. I think it will.’

  ‘But does that mean Abigail's death was in some way related to Emma Hilliard's suicide?’

  ‘Mrs Melbury, you've been very co-operative. I can't stop you speculating, but please, it's very important you don't mention this to anyone. Don't even mention that I was here. It's vitally important no one knows we've been asking about Emma Hilliard.’

  ‘I can be discreet too, Sergeant.’ She held out her hand.

  Worried he'd said too much, Ian tried to backtrack. ‘We're just making general enquiries into Abigail Kirby's past, trying to find out what sort of person she was. It just happened that Emma Hilliard was the only name we'd come across – that's all –’

  She knew he wasn't being strictly truthful. ‘There's more to this than you are able to tell me, but don't worry. I won't mention this discussion to anyone. I just hope it helps you to find out who murdered poor Abigail. She helped so many pupils. But a few – like Emma –’ She shrugged. ‘You can't help everyone, Sergeant.’

  ‘No, you can't.’

  Ian reached York station with minutes to spare before his train left, a copy of the post-mortem report on Mary Shelton in his inside pocket. Soon after Paul Hilliard's daughter committed suicide her best friend had fallen from Emma's bedroom window to land on glass which broke, neatly slicing off one of her ears. At the time there had been no reason to suspect that this had been anything other than a terrible accident. That Paul Hilliard had been in the house at the time had been regarded as his misfortune.

  Paul Hilliard had subsequently moved to Kent where his daughter's former tutor had been murdered, and her tongue cut out. The only potential witness had been murdered, and his eyes removed.

  Ian's elation at the success of his journey faded as the train began to move. He dreaded telling Geraldine, but it had to be done. Reluctantly he reached for his mobile. It seemed to ring interminably before he heard Geraldine's voice, brisk and reassuring. ‘…I can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message…’

  Ian swore under his breath as he waited. ‘Gov, it's Ian. Call me as soon as you get this. I need to speak to you about Paul Hilliard. I've been to York and –’ He faltered. He knew he'd have to tell her but decided it was best dealt with face to face. ‘Call me. It's urgent. Don't contact him until we've spoken.’ He hung up. There was nothing more he could do. The train hurtled smoothly on its way south.

  He waited but the DI didn't return his call.

  65

  THE TRUTH

  As she was was
hing her hands, Geraldine thought she heard her phone ring. She paused to check her make–up and smooth down her hair, before returning to the living room where Paul was waiting for her.

  ‘Was that my phone?’

  Paul looked faintly puzzled. ‘Phone?’

  ‘I thought I heard my phone.’

  ‘I didn't hear anything. I was in the kitchen.’

  Geraldine checked. ‘I thought so. There's a missed call from my sergeant.’

  A petulant frown crossed Paul's face. ‘You're not on duty now. Ignore it.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘The sergeant would've left a message if it was important.’

  ‘True. But –’

  ‘Come here.’ He came very close to her, rested his arms on her shoulders and kissed her on the mouth. His lips felt dry and warm, his tongue probed gently between her teeth. ‘Forget about work,’ he murmured, kissing her neck. ‘It's easier than you think.’ Geraldine relaxed into his embrace as he kissed her again. After a few seconds he pulled back slightly, still keeping his arms around her. ‘Geraldine, come with me. I want to show you something.’

  Smiling, he led her into the hall. She hoped he was taking her up to his bedroom but he took her straight to a bookcase at the foot of the stairs. Geraldine was surprised to see him slide the bookcase sideways across the wall to reveal a small door. He took a key from his pocket. As it turned in the lock, they heard the faint sound of a phone ringing in the living room. She turned.

  ‘Leave it.’ Paul looked at her, his face alive with excitement. Geraldine smiled and stepped forward. The door swung open and she followed him across the threshold into darkness. The door clicked shut behind her and she heard the faint scratching of a key turning. There was a brief pause then a sudden light dazzled her. When she opened her eyes, Paul was looking up at her from half way down a narrow staircase.

  ‘Come on.’ She had never seen Paul looking so energised, his eyes sparkling in the bright light. He led her down, holding her hand, and Geraldine was astonished to see a white room, bare apart from a large white table and a white cupboard that reached to the ceiling. She wondered how it had been brought down the stairs or if it had been put together down there. The strangeness of the room suddenly made her skin crawl with fear.